The Isis Tales: Showdown
by Eilidh17
Summary: Kidfic.  Jack and Isis square off in a showdown of wits!


Showdown by Cheryl

Category: Kidfic

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.

Notes: Isis squares up against Jack in a knitter's showdown. Part of the Isis Files series.

Two down, bottom of the ninth, and there's the pitch! The ball goes slightly wide, just to the left of the plate, but the batter swings… and he hits!

"Ja?"

It was a nice dream while it lasted: A kind of warped interpretation of a lazy summer day at the baseball with Mikta taking a hit for the home team. Didn't think cats could play ball, huh? Well, they can't, unless of course they become one with the ball and fly out the ground for a winning home run.

Sigh. It's a fantasy of mine.

"Ja!"

When Daniel first came to live with me, I made a mistake. Okay, so I made plenty of them, but this one was a biggie. I was warned, no, pleaded with, not to let him sleep in my room. Carter, who believes that all women come with a PhD in motherhood, regardless of whether they've had kids or not, assured me that I'd live to regret the day I moved his crib into my bedroom.

And right now, as his wet diaper soars across the space separating us, knocks over the lamp on my nightstand and comes to a sloppy stop on my freshly laundered pillow, I'm beginning to see the wisdom in her words.

"Ja! Up!"

Daniel is a bright kid. Far too smart for all of his less than two years, and I'll be a monkey's uncle if the little tyke can read more than a few words—a shame that talent doesn't extend to clocks and other timepieces. So, it's… groan… five am, and he want's out of bed. Now, normally I'd oblige, but somewhere during the night, Isis took up residence between my feet and is currently doing that contented kitty thing with her claws and kneading my calf muscle.

So, while she's tenderising her next meal, I pick up the soggy diaper by one corner, ignoring the heavy scent of urine, and dump it in the wastepaper basked by the side of the bed. Yes, did I mention he does his diaper tossing act so often that I'm prepared now?

Isis has stopped filleting my leg and has gone quiet. In a maneuver I can only attribute to years of tactical experience, I toss the covers back and, taking full advantage of her disorientation, fly out of bed, extract Daniel from his crib, and make like roadrunner to the living room. In one fluid motion, I have the television on and Daniel hunkered down in front of it, while we negotiate this mornings viewing pleasure.

Right! Sponge Bob it is… again.

I know I missed the informative years of Charlie's life; those little moments like his first word, first tooth, first steps… and all those other firsts, but I was around enough to know that curiosity with one's private parts, no matter how small they are, was not something my kid did. However, this is not that same kid, and Daniel's fascination with his little archaeologist, especially first thing in the morning, is starting to worry me. Leading on from his early morning rising routine comes the "What dis?" conversation, where he points at the aforementioned little archaeologist and queries its reason for being.

Doc Fraiser, bless her stethoscope and years of medical wisdom, suggested that I stand Daniel on a low stool in front of the toilet bowl and give him a practical demonstration on the most purposeful use for one's 'pee pee'. Yes, well, we won't say how many shades or peridot I went and, sensing my discomfort, she suggested I use a filled syringe instead of my… thing.

Okay, cool! I could do that!

Yes, well, I thought I could. Remember I said Daniel is a bright kid? Famous last words. I found him in front of the toilet bowl, only hours after my little syringe demonstration, shooting the sides with an empty turkey baster. Needless to say, all of this did nothing to curb his 'little' fascination.

The tinny tones of Bob and Patrick and their underwater pineapple are drawing Daniel's attention away from his penile fascination, so I turn on the coffee machine, load a sachet of oats into the microwave, and go in search of a fresh diaper.

Only to find myself facing off with Isis in the hallway.

Can cats look pissy?

I guess the long thread she's trailing from one claw should instantly tell me that not only did it take some effort to get out of her blanketed prison, but it involved some heavy duty shredding of Granny O'Neill's crocheted coverlet. She'd be turning in her grave!

What to do, what to do?

My natural instinct is to visualize the home run of my dreams as I dispatch Mikta out of the stadium, to the roar of an appreciative crowd of dog lovers. This, of course, is followed shortly afterwards by a visit from the local equivalent of the Miami Animal Police. Somehow I don't think they'd show my best side when the program goes to air. Okay, so I strike improving my batting average from the list of options and decide to call in the heavy guns to help me out.

"Yo, Carter!" I snark down the phone at her, after making a tactical retreat back to the living room, keeping the marauding mauler firmly in my sights.

"_Sir?"_

"Did I wake you up?"

"_Yes. You do know it's six am on a Sunday morning?"_

"Yes, Carter, a fact I'm painfully aware of. However, Daniel's inner clock is all screwy, and if he's awake then so am I."

"_And apparently that extends to me as well?"_

"I hope you don't expect me to apologise."

"_What has she done?"_

"She?"

"_I can only think of one reason you'd call me at this early hour, sir."_

"She's got her paw stuck in Granny O'Neil's coverlet."

"_Not the cream one?"_

"Granny only ever made one, Carter. She was never much of a knitter."

"_Crotchetier."_

"Does it matter? Same ball of string just different sticks!"

"_Needles."_

"Carter!"

I can hear my 2IC laughing down the phone at me. "Carter!"

"_I'm sorry, sir, but what do you want me to do?"_

"I want you to get your ass over here and untangle the dang cat. That's what I want you to do!"

"_There's no mathematics involved in detangling a cat, sir. Surely you can do it?"_

"I so much as look sideways at her and she's writing out my epitaph. Oh, and when you're done freeing her, can you do that hinky thing you do to check for Goolds? Pretty sure she's been infested."

"_She's a cat, sir!"_ I can hear exasperation in her tone. Nothing like a bit of Carter baiting to start the day off well.

"Your point?"

"_Look, if she's st__ill tied up in about three hours—when most of the normal people in this world are getting out of bed— call me back. Give Daniel a kiss for me."_ And then she's gone! I don't believe it! My good for nothing, know it all "Daniel will love a cat as a pet" 2IC has hung up on me. I feel a demotion coming on.

I glare at the receiver as though Carter might still be there and watching me through it, before tossing it back on the kitchen bench. In the living room, Daniel is blissfully unaware that war has been declared with the feline race and is bopping up and down on his diaper, yammering on about crabby paddies and pickles. Behind him, and just at the entrance to the hallway, Mikta is still tightly bound in the remnants of Granny O'Neill's family heirloom, eyes narrowed, and tongue peeking out from between her snarled lips. Now, if this was Carter, I'd say she was deep in thought about something of great galactic importance, but as it's my arch-nemesis, I can only assume she's on the final phase of plotting my downfall.

"Ja?" In one swift motion, my instantly christened black-ops baby has his hands wrapped around my leg and is looking up at me through whorls of extreme bed head hair. See, this is dangerous, because last time I looked at him—which I swear was only a few seconds earlier—he was safely seconded in Bob's underwater world. Now, he's standing on the front lines of a skirmish that can only end badly.

"Daniel?"

"'sis?"

What about her? I've got her pegged as the next supreme commander of the System Lords.

"'urt?"

Urt?

"'sis urt."

Dang it all if I forgot to turn my internal Daniel dictionary on before being slapped with a face full of morning diaper. "Help me out here, buddy," I plead, noting sadly that Daniel is fully in control of this conversation… much like Isis is control of the house.

"'sis!" He tugs at my pant leg and waves a hand at the cat.

"Oh!" Yes! Let there be light! "Is Isis hurt?"

"Ya!"

"Na, buddy, she's taken up knitting classes. Nothing at all to worry about." Other than me strangling her if I survive Operation Detanglement. "How about you go back to Bob while I sort Isis?"

He stuffs a thumb in his mouth, frowns at me for a moment, and turns back towards the television. Bob and Patrick are doing some weird thing with Bob's shorts that really does leave me with the impression that their relationship isn't quite as platonic as the writers would have us believe. However, I'm satisfied Daniel will draw enough interest from their antics not to be too bothered when the melee starts.

Oh, fer the love of… "Daniel!" This kid is going to be the death of me! Once again, I managed to get my attention lost on Bikini Bottom just long enough to not notice Daniel didn't actually plant himself back in front of the television. Noo… he's done a quiet one eighty and is waist bent, diapered butt in the air over Mikta, who has… I hate this cat… she's adopted the laying unsupported position while the kid pulls the wool off her paw.

And she's purring.

Contented.

I swear she's smiling at me.

"See?" Daniel turns towards me and holds out a fist full of Granny's coverlet, the bulk of which is still trailing down the hallway and into my bedroom. "'sis all betta now, Ja." He stuffs the wool into the top of his diaper, and grabbing Isis by the scruff of her neck, pulls her into his arms and toddles past me into the living room. Bob and Patrick have broken for a musical interlude that carries on to the next episode, and Daniel settles himself and Isis on a mound of cushions to watch the roll of credits.

"'loops?" he asks over his shoulder, thumb sliding up his chin and back into his mouth. "'loops, Ja?"

Fruitloops it is.

The End


End file.
